Brotherhood of the Wolf (26 page)

Borenson licked his lips. Raj Ahten was not likely to
listen to reason, but at the same time, he could hardly turn away from twenty thousand forcibles.

“Other men have borne such appeals,” Jureem warned. “He will not buy what he believes he can take by force. I suspect that he will not listen. He might even kill your messenger.”

“Perhaps,” Gaborn said. “But what if the petition were borne by one of his own people, one whom he loved and could not easily dismiss?” Gaborn leaned to his right, gazing hard at Jureem. “Jureem, you told me a few days ago that Raj Ahten has hundreds of wives secreted at the Palace of Concubines in Obran. You say that no man is allowed to see them, upon penalty of death. Which is his favorite wife? Would
she
hear my plea? Would
she
bear my petition?”

“Saffira is her name, milord,” Jureem said, stroking his goatee. “The daughter of Emir Owatt, of Tuulistan. She is the prize of his harem.”

“I know her father by reputation. The Emir is a good man,” Gaborn said. “Surely his daughter shares some of his goodness and strength.”

“Perhaps,” Jureem said. “But I have never seen her. Once a wife enters the palace, she does not come out.”

“Raj Ahten is a vain man,” Iome said. “I can think of only one reason why he would hide the women of his harem away from his own people. How many endowments of glamour has he lavished upon his favorite wife?”

Jureem considered. “You guess wisely, milady. It is his custom to grant an endowment of glamour to his wife each time he lies with her, so that on his next visit she will be even more beautiful than he remembers. Saffira has been his favorite for five years. She must have more than three hundred endowments by now.”

Borenson sat back in astonishment. A woman with a dozen endowments of glamour left men dizzy with desire. He could not imagine how a woman with hundreds of such endowments might affect him. Perhaps Gaborn's plot
could
work.

But Borenson still felt uneasy. “I can't believe that no one has considered using her as a weapon.”

“I was my lord's most trusted servant,” Jureem said. “It was my duty to provide baubles and endowments for the concubines. Aside from two or three others, no man has been allowed to know the extent of the harem.”

Gaborn's gaze shifted to each of the others. “What do you say? I propose to send a message to Saffira, and let her carry it to Raj Ahten.”

“It could work,” Jureem said doubtfully. “But I hesitate to believe that Raj Ahten would take her counsel. She is, after all, only his wife.”

Borenson wondered. In many parts of Indhopal, it was considered unmanly to listen to the counsel of a woman.

“It
could
work,” Iome said more hopefully. “Binnesman suggested that Raj Ahten has gone mad simply because he has been listening to his own Voice. She might persuade him.”

“And what if I were to give her another thousand endowments of glamour and Voice,” Gaborn asked, “as a token of my goodwill, so that even Raj Ahten could not resist her?”

“There
are
facilitators at Obran who are skilled at giving such endowments,” Jureem admitted.

“And we have the forcibles to do it with,” Chancellor Rodderman cut in. “But it might take a day or two to find women who would serve as Dedicates.”

“I'd offer my glamour,” Myrrima said.

She glanced nervously toward Borenson, as if afraid of his reaction. She'd used that beauty to try to lure him into marriage. She had to know that it was unfair to offer to give it away now. Yet Borenson admired her all the more for making the offer.

“There are already women at Obran,” Jureem said. “Raj Ahten has many concubines, all of whom have been endowed with glamour or Voice. Some of them have suffered greatly because of this long war. They too hope for peace,
and I suspect that some of them, perhaps many of them, would act as vectors.…”

“You would be taking a great risk,” King Orwynne said. “We don't know this woman—nor do we know how such power might affect her. What if she too turns against you?”

“We must try,” Gaborn said. “Raj Ahten is not our greatest enemy. I need his strength. I want him to fight the reavers.”

It seemed a slim chance, one that Borenson would not have considered himself.

“Perhaps,” Erin Connal said. “But we should move forward with a doe's caution. You say that you feel an aura of great danger around us. Even if you send riders tonight, it will take days to reach Indhopal—”

“Not with the right horse,” Jureem countered. “The fortress at Obran is in the northern provinces, just south of Deyazz, barely seven hundred miles from here.”

Borenson said, “I've never heard of Obran. But if it's that close, then with a king's mount and a little luck, I could take the Raven's Pass out of Fleeds and be there by early afternoon tomorrow. If she consents, Saffira could deliver the message to Raj Ahten the following night.”

He spoke the words without considering the matter. It sounded like a fool's quest. He wondered at his own reasons for wanting to go. In part, he wanted to do it because he knew that he was a good man for the job. He'd performed dozens of dangerous missions in the past.

He could also see that this would give him the opportunity to spy on Indhopal's defenses and study the movements of enemy troops along the border. And as he did so, he would be heading far south, toward Inkarra.

Thus he would begin the quest Iome had set for him.

But a small part of him knew that he wanted something far more: He wanted redemption.

Both Lord Ingress and King Orwynne spoke casually of killing Dedicates, of holding to the endless tradition of butchery that had defined the battle strategies of Runelords
in the past. Their strategies were so horrific in part because they were reliable.

But Borenson had little stomach for it now. Gaborn's plan, no matter how poorly conceived, offered some slim hope that Indhopal and Rofehavan could reach an accord, put an end to the madness.

And it was the only such plan on the table.

Borenson had the blood of over two thousand men, women, and children on his hands. Perhaps if he could bring this off, he reasoned, he might someday feel clean again.

“I would not put all of my hopes on this one throw of the bones, Your Highness,” King Orwynne said. “You must look to your own defenses.

“Saffira may not be able or willing to do as you ask, and you would not have called this council if you did not plan to bestir yourself, and ride to the defense of Mystarria. You need to prepare to battle Raj Ahten in person, if need be.…

“Or you could select a champion. I have a nephew—a lion of a man—Sir Langley. He's here in the camps.”

“It's all very well to send a champion,” Horsesister Connal urged Gaborn, “but you should not let Orwynne or Heredon fight alone. Raj Ahten may fear Duke Paldane, but if you ride from the north, he'll fear
you
more. And it would rally every man in the north to fight beside you. The horse clans would ride with you.”

Gaborn sat pondering the proposals of his supporters.

The idealistic lad actually hopes to get out of this without fighting Raj Ahten, Borenson realized. But he suspected that Gaborn would never pull it off. A war with Raj Ahten was coming whether Gaborn or any of them willed it or not.

“What will you do?” Borenson pressed him.

Gaborn reflected for another half a second, nodded. “The fate of the world rests upon our decision. I would not make such a decision hastily, and in truth I have thought about little else for the past week.

“My people cannot hide from Raj Ahten, and I cannot drive him away. I would fight him, if I believed that in fighting we could prevail. But I don't believe that. So I must hope to turn him, however slim that hope might be.”

Gaborn looked at Borenson. “You'll take
my
horse and leave within the hour.”

Borenson slapped the table with a fist and rose from his chair, eager to be away, but found himself lingering momentarily as a courtesy.

Gaborn turned to King Orwynne. “I've met Sir Langley. He has a good heart. I'll give you two thousand forcibles, to equip him as he wishes.”

“You are most generous,” King Orwynne said, seemingly astonished that the Earth King would grant such a boon. Even ten years ago, when blood metal was amply available, the whole kingdom of Orwynne had probably not seen two thousand forcibles in a single year.

Last of all Gaborn turned to Connal. “You're right. If I march at the head of our armies, Raj Ahten cannot ignore me. I'll ride south, and Fleeds will have two thousand forcibles, too.”

Connal grunted in wonder. Her poor realm had probably never seen two thousand forcibles in any five years.

With that, the meeting ended. The lords pushed their chairs back from the table, began to rise. Gaborn reached into the pocket of his vest, drew out the keys for the King's treasury, and tossed them to Borenson.

“Milord,” Jureem said, “May I suggest that you have him take seven hundred of glamour, three hundred of voice?”

Gaborn nodded. “As he says.”

Borenson left the room, headed for the treasury in the Dedicates' Keep. Myrrima followed behind, and once they were outside, she accompanied him along the stone wall a couple of steps.

She grabbed his hand. “Wait!”

He turned to look at her in the starlight. The night was a bit chill, but had no teeth that bit. Myrrima stared up at him with worry in her eyes. Even in the starlight, she was
gorgeous. The sinuous curve of her waist and the gleaming sheen of her hair tempted him.

“You won't be back, will you?” she said.

Borenson shook his head. “No. Carris is nine hundred miles south of here. I can reach the northern border of Inkarra only three hundred miles farther on. I'll head south.”

She studied him. “Do you even plan to say goodbye?”

Borenson could see that she wasn't going to make this easy. He wanted to hold her, to kiss her. He wanted to stay. But duty called him elsewhere, and he had ever been loyal to his duty. “There's not much time.”

“There's time,” she said. “You've had all week. Why did you even remain in Heredon, if not to say goodbye?”

She was right, of course. He'd chosen to stay in order to say goodbye to her, to all of Rofehavan, perhaps to his own life. Yet he'd not had the strength to speak of it.

He kissed her lips, tenderly, and whispered, “Goodbye.”

He began to turn away, but she grabbed his arm again. “Do you really love me?” she asked.

“As best I know how.”

“Then why have you not bedded me? You've wanted me. I've seen it in your eyes.”

Borenson had not wanted to broach the subject, but he answered her now as honestly as he could. “Because to do so would risk siring a child—”

“And you don't want me to carry your child?”

“—and bringing a child into the world requires one to accept certain responsibilities—”

“You think I'm not ready for such responsibilities!” Myrrima said too loudly.

“If I should die, I would not want my child called a bastard!” Borenson raged. “Or the son of a kingslayer! Or worse!”

The blood came hot to his face, and Borenson found himself trembling with rage.

But despite his rage he was able to detach himself—as if he were viewing himself from somewhere outside his own body—while he mused about past and present. Ah, it's
funny how the old pains can still hurt, he thought. Here he was, kingslayer, reaver slayer, guardian to the Earth King, one of the most feared warriors in all of Rofehavan—and rightfully so. Yet deep inside he was still just a child running through the stucco-walled alleys on the Isle of Thwynn while other boys hurled insults and mud and sharp stones.

Borenson had always felt the need to prove himself. It had driven him to become one of the mightiest warriors of his time. Now he did not really fear any other man on earth.

Yet the notion that a child of his might be hurt as he himself had been hurt seemed unbearable.

He still feared the tauntings of little boys.

“Love me!” Myrrima demanded, trying to pull him close.

But Borenson pointed a finger in her face and said more firmly, “Responsibility.”

“Love me,” she pleaded.

He shook her hand from his sleeve and said, “Can't you see? This is how you show love. And should I die—as seems likely—you'll have my name, my wealth.…”

“I've heard it said that you're a lusty man,” Myrrima accused. “Have you never bedded a woman?”

Angry now, Borenson sought to control himself. He could not express in words his own self-loathing, his desire to unmake his own past. “If I have, it was a mistake,” he said, “for I never imagined that I would meet someone like you.”

“It's not responsibility that drives you from my bed,” Myrrima accused. “You're punishing yourself. You think you're punishing yourself, but when you do, you're also punishing me—and I don't deserve this!”

She sounded so certain of herself, so sure. Borenson had no reply to her accusation, only the solid belief that ultimately she would come to see that he acted in her best interest.

He squeezed her hand, then left.

Myrrima felt cheated as she watched him turn to go. The
ching, ching
of his mail echoed between the stone towers.
In a moment he reached the portcullis to the Dedicates' Keep, and was swallowed beneath its shadows. She stood for a moment, watching how the starlight washed the paving stones here in the bailey.

She knew that he thought he was right. Loving someone meant taking responsibility for that person.

But as he went off to fetch his forcibles, Myrrima began to fume. Borenson would not allow this to work both ways.

A few minutes later he came back out of the keep, bearing a leather bag filled with forcibles. He saw her but turned and headed for the stables, as if to avoid her.